bothered to call her up and tell her personally that she’d fled the office in search of the nearest source of alcohol, which happened to be the gallery next door to the office where she worked. No way. That kind of revelation she’d be keeping to herself.
So, aware that he was waiting for an answer and not liking that probing gaze one little bit, Imogen shrugged and fixed a bland smile to her face. ‘I’ve decided lately that my horizons need broadening,’ she said, thinking it was, after all, at least the partial truth.
‘I see.’ He gave her a sexy kind of half smile and his eyes glittered. ‘Need any help?’
She stared at him as shivers raced up and down her spine. Help? Oh, goodness. From the way the glint was glinting she could guess exactly the sort of help he was offering. The sort she wasn’t interested in, she reminded herself. Not. Interested. In.
‘Thank you, but no,’ she said, sounding a lot firmer than she felt.
‘Are you sure? Because I’m good at broadening horizons.’
‘I’ve no doubt you are.’
He smiled into her eyes, and even though he hadn’t moved it felt as if he’d somehow got closer. ‘Have dinner with me and I’ll show you how good.’
IMOGEN blinked, faintly stunned, although why the invitation should be quite such a surprise was beyond her. It wasn’t as if she’d never been asked out to dinner before.
Maybe it was the fact that the intensity of his attention was so all-encompassing it had robbed her of reason. Or maybe it was simply the fact that, as he’d apparently stolen all the air around her, her brain was being starved of oxygen. ‘Dinner?’ she murmured.
He nodded. ‘That’s right. Dinner. Comes after lunch and before breakfast. Around this time.’
‘Ah, that dinner.’
‘That’s the one. So?’
Imogen was almost certain her answer ought to be no. More than almost certain, actually, because hadn’t she just been telling herself that she’d had enough of men for the foreseeable future, the whole lousy lot of them? Wasn’t she just the tiniest bit unhinged at the moment? And didn’t she need to concentrate on repairing her poor battered emotions instead of letting herself be dragged under the spell of such a dangerously magnetic man?
But it was so tempting, she thought, her common sense beginning to unravel beneath his unwavering gaze. After two months of miserable soul-searching, her self-esteem could really do with the attention, and after nearly three glasses of champagne her stomach could really do with the food.
Besides she hadn’t sworn off all men, had she? She blotted out the little voice in her head jumping up and down, waving its arms in alarm and demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing, and concentrated on justifying the decision she was pretty sure she was going to make. She might have had her fingers burnt recently but she wasn’t that jaded. And dinner didn’t have to go anywhere, did it? How could a couple of hours in the company of a gorgeous attentive man hurt?
Feeling her spirits creeping up, Imogen laughed for what seemed like the first time in weeks and felt lighter than she had in months. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘Jack Taylor.’ He held out his hand.
‘Imogen Christie,’ she said, taking it.
For a moment she was so startled by the feel of his hand wrapped around hers and the energy that suddenly spun through her that the name didn’t register. She was too busy marvelling at the way every nerve ending she possessed tingled. The way her whole body was suddenly coming alive, and thinking about how much fun dinner was going to be.
But when it did, seconds later, her smile froze and her stomach disappeared. Her heart sank and the heat pounding through her turned to ice.
Oh, hell.
Jack Taylor? Not the Jack Taylor? Not the one she’d read about. Heard about. Been warned about …
How typical was that? She reluctantly pulled her hand out of his as disappointment washed through her.
Random snippets of information started whipping round her head. Facts she must have subconsciously gleaned over the years that now spun and whirled and settled into one long list.
According to the financial press, the man was some kind of investment superstar. He made millions on a daily basis, backing ventures most people wouldn’t touch with a bargepole and taking risks considered to be either insane or genius depending on one’s point of view. His funds were huge and his successes were global.
As, apparently, were his extra-curricular activities.
According to her friends and the kind of press that favoured gossip over finance, Jack Taylor was legendary. He was gorgeous and charming. Smooth and charismatic, yet ice cool and elusive. He was, by all accounts, a true heartbreaker.
As poor wretched Amanda Hobbs had eventually found out, she recalled. The story of Amanda, who she didn’t personally know but was the friend of a friend of a friend, had recently taken the grapevine by storm, causing hands to be clapped to mouths and gasps of shock and pity. Poor, tragic Amanda, who’d been going out with him until he’d callously ditched her, and had had to flee to Italy to recover.
With all the details of the whole saga zooming to the forefront of her mind Imogen bridled, and the disappointment turned into something colder, harder and stonier because, apart from the work aspect, Jack Taylor was exactly the sort of man Max was. Exactly the sort of man she’d vowed to steer well clear of.
Rumour had it that a few years ago he’d even engaged in an Internet bidding war over some woman. From what she could remember he’d opted for greatsexguaranteed as a user name and didn’t that tell her everything she needed to know? And not just that he was a fan of online auctions.
As she stared up at him standing there oozing self-confident charm, his eyes gleaming with that wicked glint, she wondered how on earth she could have missed it. It was there for anyone with half a brain to see. The laid-back insouciance. The unmistakeable air of wealth. Of innate arrogance. The dazzling smile of a man who knew he had the ability to make women fall into his bed like dominoes.
Well, not this woman, thought Imogen grimly, gathering her scattered wits and pulling herself together. In targeting her he’d chosen badly. Really badly.
The little part of her that was deeply flattered at being hit on by the infamous Jack Taylor, that wondered if he really could guarantee great sex, could forget it. So could the gleam of expectation in his eye, because she wasn’t falling into his bed or anywhere else. She was immune. And dinner was most definitely off.
‘I know a great little place just round the corner,’ Jack was saying, and Imogen dragged herself back to the conversation.
Oh, she just bet he did, she thought, going numb. She bet he knew great little places round every corner of London.
‘Actually,’ she said smoothly, drawing her shoulders back and giving him a tight smile,
